


Beat Match

by grapehyasynth



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Radio, F/M, FS Music Challenge, Music, TheFitzSimmonsNetwork Music Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-18 12:25:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7315156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grapehyasynth/pseuds/grapehyasynth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>beat match</b> -- - to set the tempo of two songs and play them so they are at exactly the same speed and time, making them sound like just one song</p><p>'Cosmic Jams with Fitz and Simmons' is the hottest radio show in the country. They're inseparable and everyone loves them... But after seven years of perfect synchronicity, the needle on the turntable of their friendship starts skipping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. On Air

**Author's Note:**

> I have always wanted to listen to a radio show or fictional podcast where you can hear the hosts fall in love with each other -- kind of like Welcome to Nightvale but without all the weird background stuff. This is kind of my homage to that idea/dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> huge enormous giant shoutout and hug to Tashonix for amazing beta work!!!!! 
> 
> Check out this dope graphic from the ineffable chinese-bakery!   
> 

“...still claims they’re just on hiatus and will be back in the recording studio by the end of the year, but insiders say there’s significant tension between guitarist Smol and lead singer Evans. A break-up of the band would devastate a lot of fans but could produce some really interesting solo careers -- personally I’d love to see Smol get back to his acoustic roots. But nobody asked me, did they? As always, we’ll keep you up to date as the situation develops. If you’re just tuning in, this is Cosmic Jams with Fitz and Simmons on Mix106. Right now we’re headed into our commercial-free morning hour, so I’ll leave you with the latest single by Lincoln and the Campbells.”

Fitz clicks his mic off with an exaggerated sigh and pushes back from the table, sliding his large headphones down to dangle around his neck. His curls stick up in weird places from hours of wearing the headset and he makes a half-hearted attempt to flatten them as he starts spinning his chair in lazy circles.

“Seen any good movies lately, Simmons?”

Jemma doesn’t look up from her laptop, where she is putting together a playlist for their afternoon show. “Are you asking me to one?” she replies with a sly smirk.

“Yeah,” Fitz scoffs, bumping her ankle with his foot on every rotation. “Like you ever go with anyone else.”

She hums, unable to argue with that.

“Anybody home?” Phil Coulson, their agent, knocks on the doorframe and pokes his head in. “Safe to come in? No paper planes this time?”

“Oh, Coulson, I’m so sorry, do you still have that cut?” Jemma asks apologetically, shutting her laptop and getting up to fuss over his forehead.

“It’ll heal,” Coulson assures her.

“We  _ did  _ shout ‘fore’,” Fitz mutters.

“I brought the roundup from your latest press junket.” Coulson throws a stack of magazines down on the coffee table and sits on the arm of the couch as Fitz and Jemma dive to grab one each.

“And?” Fitz demands.

“See for yourself,” Coulson says, but he smiles as they flip frantically through the pages.

“‘Cosmic Jams remains an absolute delight,’” Jemma reads gleefully. “‘It seems impossible that two people can be in our lives every day for seven years and not get boring or annoying, but somehow adorkable Brits Jemma Simmons and Leopold Fitz manage to be interesting, engaging, accessible, hilarious, irreverent, and lovable, time after time. When they’re not crushing it with their sets of cutting-edge music from every genre or charming the pants off our favorite musical stars--’ That’s American pants, not British pants,” she cuts in for Fitz’s benefit. 

“I think he got it,” Coulson chuckles.

“‘...favorite musical stars, they’re bickering with each other like an old married couple and by God does it work. I could listen to these two snarkily read the newspaper and it would probably make me laugh. If you’re not listening live or checking out the podcast after, you’re missing out. Plus, make sure to follow their individual accounts on Spotify because their musical taste isn’t bad either.’ And they gave it five stars!” She wiggles in place, beaming.

“How many years do you have to hold the highest rating in the city before you stop being surprised?” Coulson shakes his head affectionately.

“Are we really  _ adorkable _ ?” Fitz asks, wrinkling his nose. 

“What does  _ Variety  _ say?” Jemma nudges his arm impatiently.

“Alright, alright,” he mutters, perusing the index before thumbing through to the profile towards the back of the magazine. “Approachable, hysterical, blah blah blah... ‘If we’re being totally honest, no one thought these two weird kids from across the Atlantic would strike it so big here, especially in radio, once considered a dying medium. And certainly not with a show called  _ Cosmic Jams with Fitz and Simmons on Mix106 _ \-- what a mouthful. Yet somehow it’s never been a problem. Fitz and Simmons have become such a household name that it’s frankly surprising we haven’t just taken to combining them into FitzSimmons. There’s no one hotter than this dynamic duo right now, and with every major station in the country salivating to poach them, they’re sitting pretty. Long gone are the days of Seacrest dominating this business. FitzSimmons, we’ll follow you anywhere.’”

“Pinch me, I’m dreaming,” Jemma sighs. Fitz does so a little too eagerly and she yelps. “Hey! It’s just a turn of phrase, Fitz, you didn’t have to try to leave a mark.”

“Humility is good and all, but you have to recognize you’re at the top of a crazy business,” Coulson cuts into their frivolity. “I do my best to shield you from that but... You should check out the  _ TMZ  _ printout too.”

“That trash,” Fitz dismisses, but Jemma picks it up.

“‘Turbulence on the Spaceship FitzSimmons?’ God, that doesn’t even make sense,” she grumbles. “‘Everyone’s all a-glow with the seemingly never-ending meteoric rise of radio darlings Fitz and Simmons...But is there trouble in paradise? An inside source tells us there’s growing tension between the more reticent Fitz, 27, and the bubbly Simmons, also 27. ‘Fitz has always maintained that he’s okay following Simmons’s lead, but lately he appears to be grating under her oppressive and overbearing personality,’ the source reveals. ‘It seems to be just a matter of time before he breaks out from under her thumb to finally chart his own path.’”

“That was so many mixed metaphors I couldn’t even follow,” Fitz gripes, tugging on his ear.

Jemma studies the page, brow furrowed.

“Jemma?” Coulson prods gently.

“You don’t actually feel this way, do you?” she asks Fitz abruptly, glancing up at him with wide eyes. “Like I’m -- ‘oppressive and overbearing’?”

“Of course not,” he snorts. “Don’t be stupid. They just make that shite up.”

“You’d tell me, though, right?” she presses on worriedly. “If you felt like I was, I don’t know, stifling you creatively, or speaking over you too much, or--”

“Jemma, it’s fine,” he sighs, tugging the paper from her tense grip. “I’ve never held back from telling you your playlists are rubbish, I’ll certainly not stop from harping on you if you yourself get to be too much, alright?” 

This doesn’t really make her feel better, and that must show, as Coulson chimes in, “I don’t think anyone will believe this, Jemma. I certainly don’t. Just thought you should know that the great reviews inevitably come with some backlash.”

Jemma nods, still chewing her lip.

“Did I mention I brought tacos?” Coulson says suddenly, lifting up a greasy paper bag.

“On a Thursday? The sacrilege,” Fitz tuts, nonetheless snagging the bag and inhaling the heavenly scent. “They’re still warm,” he sighs happily, extending it to Jemma.

“I’ll get napkins.” Jemma can see the bogus gossip has had no effect whatsoever on Fitz and feels buoyed by his innocent optimism, so she shoves away the nagging doubts and hurries to the studio kitchen.

“Hey, Simmons!” The late-night DJ, Joey Gutierrez, hails her on her way back. “You and Fitz met the new intern yet?”

It still amuses her that there are people who’ve never known “you and Fitz” as anything but a joint unit.

“No, I know she’s Garrett’s niece but I hadn’t heard anything beyond that,” she says, leaning against his doorframe.

“Angie told me she’s known as a real social climber, kind of cutthroat, but she honestly seemed really nice to me,” Joey shrugs. “I was going to give her a chance to jump in on my set next week, feel out what it’s like to cohost.”

“That’s a lovely idea, really. It’s little things like that, people being unnecessarily welcoming and generous, that helped Fitz and I get our start,” she explains. It’s a bit strange to be giving advice to Joey, who’s a few years older than she is, but in terms of experience she’s the most senior host in the building. “And definitely wait to make your own judgments. She might just come off as cutthroat because she doesn’t want to be seen as weak. I know the feeling.”

She waves to him and heads back to her own studio.

Fitz and Coulson are facing each other on the couch, taco juices dripping down their arms, deep in debate about auto-tuning.

“It totally cheapens the entire work!” Coulson insists.

“Some artists and producers are using it to get around subpar vocals, I admit, but it doesn't  _ have  _ to be used that way,” Fitz says vehemently. “A lot of EDM and indie pop is getting really innovative with it, using it to push the sounds they create and expand the experience rather than to cover their weaknesses--”

Jemma throws a napkin on each of their laps seconds before they ruin their jeans with grease.  _ My boys _ , she thinks affectionately, even though Coulson is nearly old enough to be her father and Fitz is, well,  _ Fitz _ .

“You okay, Jemma?” Coulson asks, clearly looking for an out from a conversation in which Fitz is wildly more knowledgeable. “You’ve been looking a little pale around the gills.”

“Oh, just a bit tired,” she says breezily, picking at the lettuce on her taco. “ _Someone_ kept me up all night." 

Coulson chokes looks between them, wide-eyed. "Oh really?" 

" _You_ were the one who challenged _me_ to a Dance Dance Revolution death match!" Fitz reminds her indignantly. 

"Either way," Jemma continues, waving her napkin at him, "I'm not feeling particularly perky today." 

"Don't let that happen tonight, okay?" Coulson warns. "We need you on your A game for the launch party tomorrow. It's our biggest event of the year and management will kill all of us, slowly and painfully, if anything goes wrong."  


"Screw management, I'm just terrified I'll be so loopy I'll embarrass myself in front of the band! I've been dreaming about meeting them forever..." 

“You want me to make you a playlist?” Fitz asks, wiping his hands off, having already devoured two tacos. “You could nap before we go back on.” 

Jemma will never admit this, but Fitz makes the best playlists of anyone she’s ever known, and she’s run in quite a few musical circles. Whether for a mood or a message, he has an incredible knack for pulling together disparate artists and genres in such a way that it feels like they were recorded to be presented together. He’s done everything from curate her workout playlist to design an anti-panic-attack mix to DJ her birthday parties, and it’s not infrequent that she’ll listen to one of his mixes and feel enveloped and surrounded and inexplicably safe.

Music is their language, really, hers and Fitz’s. Where other people their age would turn to emojis, they are able to say everything they need through song. (“It’s a shame neither of us are remotely musically talented ourselves,” she remembers commenting wryly to Fitz years ago. “I have a feeling our first album would be quite powerfully expressive.”)

She almost feels a bit guilty that she doesn’t return the favor. Her style runs more towards hearing a song for the first time and thinking instantly,  _ Oh, this is so Fitz,  _ and texting him a few lines. She’s actually got a queue of music on her iPod titled “Fitzy” where she collects these songs. Still, she feels like she’s the one benefiting, not him.

“That would be brilliant, thank you, Fitz,” she sighs.  


He just nods and grabs her iPod off the table, attaching it to his laptop and shifting songs around.

“I’ve got a few calls to make but I’ll pop back in at 4,” Coulson says, patting Jemma on the shoulder as he passes her. “Relax, would you? They’re gonna love you.”

“Thanks, Dad,” she calls after him.

“I am  _ very  _ youthful!” his voice shouts from the hallway.

“Done,” Fitz announces, rolling his chair over and handing her the player and some earbuds. “Hope this helps.”

She curls up on the couch and lets the music lull her. Fitz has seamlessly joined some of his favorites with artists she knows for certain he’s only included because she likes them. It’s an effortless blend of Andrew Bird, Damien Rice, Sleeping at Last, Coldplay, Frank Ocean, Blind Pilot, Ingrid Michaelson, Carla Bruni, Paolo Nutini, John Mayer, and Ray Lamontagne.  He’s even added some Boyz II Men, which makes her giggle, but it’s surprisingly soothing so she decides not to tease him about it.

She wakes up to someone rubbing her shoulder through a blanket that somehow got draped over her while she slept.  The earbuds have fallen out and she’s drooled a bit on the pillow but she feels noticeably well-rested.

“Mmm?” she asks, rolling over halfway to see Fitz leaning over her.

“We’re on in ten,” he says, stepping back to let her sit up. “Thought I’d give you a chance to run to the loo if you need.”

“Thanks, Fitz, you’re the best,” she chirps, bouncing up and placing a hand on his shoulder so she can kiss his cheek. “Really, that playlist was amazing, I’m going to use it every time I nap.”

He shrugs, looking a little embarrassed. “Just threw it together. I could probably do better with more advance notice.”

“No, don’t change a thing,” she insists.  “I like that it’s what you thought of first. No time to filter.”

She runs to the restroom and back, sliding straight into her chair and drumming her fingers on the table in anticipation.

Coulson’s returned with snacks from the vending machine and he kicks back on the couch with his feet on the coffee table as Jemma spins to face Fitz. They’ve done this so many times they don’t even preface it.

“Ro-sham-bo!” they chant in unison. Fitz throws scissors and Jemma paper, which means she’s in a giving mood and has let him win. After seven years she knows all his plays, after all.

“Why don’t you just say rock-paper-scissors like normal people?” Coulson asks, popping a handful of M&Ms into his mouth.

Jemma and Fitz snort and exchange a look as they put their headphones on.

“ _ Normal _ people,” Fitz chuckles.

“Spoken as if he’s one of them.” Jemma shakes her head, opening her laptop and tapping through to her notes.

“How could he be, with that funny flat accent?” Fitz wrinkles his nose.

“Ridiculous man.” Jemma waves to the man at the switchboard. “Ready when you are, Mike!”

They get the thumbs-up and Fitz -- rightful Roshambo champion -- starts them off.

“Hello, and welcome back to Cosmic Jams on Mix106...I’m Fitz--”

“And I’m Simmons.”

“And we know it’s been almost four hours since you last heard our voices so we thought we’d take some calls before Simmons puts you all through the torture that is her musical taste.”

“That musical taste, I’ll remind you, soundly trounced you in our university smackdown,” Jemma shoots back, smiling slightly. Their listeners have heard this all before but apparently, if the endless avalanche of gushing reviews is any indication, never tire of it.

“Said smackdown, dear audience, was a popularity contest and  _ not  _ an accurate poll on who has the finer appreciation for the diversity and complexity of modern music--” 

“Mm, maybe don’t go telling the entire eastern seaboard you were unpopular in uni, babes,” Jemma chuckles, rubbing Fitz’s arm sympathetically. Coulson captures the moment for Instagram -- the Cosmic Jams charm extends far beyond the auditory.

“To the phones, I think, Mike!” Fitz cries with affected urgency.

“Caller, are you there?” Jemma tilts her head, mouth open in anticipation.

“Hello! Hi!” squeaks an excited voice.

“Hi there,” Fitz chuckles. “And who’ve we got on the line this time?”

“I’m Anna!” the girl chirps. “I’m sixteen and I’m listening from Leicester--”

“Oh, practically a hometown fan!” Jemma coos.

“Hope your mum knows you’re calling international!” Fitz sucks air between his teeth. “Could be a nasty charge on next month’s bill.”

“Yeah, that’s alright,” Anna giggles, obviously positively ecstatic to be on the phone with these legends. “So my question, my question is, is Fitz as hot in person as he looks on the billboards?”

Jemma throws back her head in laughter. When she’s regained herself she shouts gleefully into the microphone, “Hotter!”

Fitz groans and buries his head in his hands.

“I wish you could see him right now, Anna,” Jemma continues, wiping away tears, “he’s bright red.”

“And I was wondering, would you go out with me, Fitz?”

Jemma has to turn away so she doesn’t give Mike a headache adjusting the sound levels to her raucous laughter.

“You know, Anna,” Fitz says, squinting one eye and scratching almost bashfully at his temple, “I don’t get around to England much -- you see, Simmons is from thereabouts, so the whole place is tainted for me--”

“Oh, go on, Fitz,” Jemma goads. “Next time you’re in Leicester, look Anna up, why don’t you?”

“And our producers are signalling that I’m to be fired for soliciting a minor,” Fitz intones, though there are no producers in sight. “Thanks for your call, Anna, and thanks for listening!”

“Bye then!” Jemma chimes in.

“You’re a terrible influence, Simmons,” Fitz chides her once Anna’s disconnected. “I’ll thank you to  _ not  _ set me up with every girl who calls up--”

“Next caller,” Jemma chuckles on Mike’s cue.

“What’s uuuuuuuuuuuuuupppppp?” someone shouts and Jemma and Fitz both jump slightly, clutching their headphones.

“Oh dear, someone’s been hitting the bottle--”

“Yo, is this Fitz and Simmons?” the person, still shouting, demands.

“Guilty.”

“Dudes. Duuuuuudes. I can’t believe it. I feel like you guys are my  _ family _ , you know? I’ve been listening to you on the way to work for  _ years _ , and while I’m cleaning, and  _ at  _ work, and while I’m crying over my ex--”

“Isn’t that sweet?” Jemma wrinkles her nose.  
“Simmons isn’t particularly romantic,” Fitz explains into the microphone, waggling his eyebrows at her.

“I am too! Didn’t I just try to help you find true love--”

“I’d hardly call what you just did  _ romantic _ \--”

“I’m getting married tomorrow, dudes!” the caller interrupts. “And I  _ so  _ wish you could be the DJs, like, it would just be the  _ best  _ thing to have you there, but my fiancée said no, she said it’d be weird to have two randos come to our wedding, but just, like, I  _ love  _ you guys and you’re the best and I love you so much.”

“You know what -- what was your name?” Jemma asks.

“Stewie!”

“Of course it is,” Fitz mutters. Behind him Coulson snorts.

“You know what, Stewie? The theme of my afternoon playlist is actually all about best friends and I was going to say something sweet about Fitz here, but in honor of your wedding, I’ll ditch Fitz and dedicate it to you and the lucky future Mrs. Stewie. Thanks for staying with us all these years and best of luck in your new adventure.”

“Right on!” he cheers.

“I’m hurt, Simmons,” Fitz pouts at Jemma after Stewie has disconnected and clutches his chest dramatically. “I thought our friendship meant more to you than that.”

“You’ll get over it. He always does,” Jemma confides to the audience. “Just bounces back like I didn’t  _ make  _ his entire career--”

“I’m right here!” Fitz cries indignantly. “And you’d spend your whole show giving terrible advice if someone weren’t here to remind you to actually  _ play the music _ . Speaking of which--”

“Right you are, Fitz! As I said, this set is based around friendship and best friends of all sorts. We’ll take a couple more calls throughout the afternoon and pop back in with music news every hour on the hour. Remember to follow us on Instagram and Facebook as we’ve a couple of exciting events and contests coming up. First song is a bit of a throwback for this Thursday --  _ You’re My Best Friend _ , by Queen. Can’t go wrong with Queen, right, Fitz?”

“Just hit play, Simmons,” he groans melodramatically.

Next to the actual music part of their job, the bit Jemma might just like best is this in-between time, the free time during songs. Technically they’re supposed to spend it answering emails, preparing the next day’s sets, and curating their social media presence, but typically they play darts or prank call hosts they know at other stations or troll through the endless depths of internet cat videos. Coulson always gives up after about an hour, unable to keep up with their energy and the enthusiastic babble they trade back and forth at top-speed, and Mike has long ago given up on trying to get them to focus rather than just popping in every few songs to take some calls. Whatever they’re doing, it’s working, and no one dares mess with that.

At the end of their set, they sign off for the day and hand the controls over to Alicia, the evening host in the slot between Cosmic Jams and Joey’s block.

“I have to grab the samples from my place but I’ll be by in half an hour,” Fitz says as they wander out into the parking lot.

“Ugh, I could really go for takeout but we already had tacos,” Jemma grumbles, pouting.

“We worked hard today,” Fitz jokes. “I’ll pick something up on my way. Pizza?”

“I’ll put together a salad so we can claim deniability.” 

“I won’t eat it,” he warns.

“I know you won’t.” She pats his arm and lets her fingers trail down to his elbow as they separate. “Bye, then!”

She always insists on saying goodbye, even when they’ll only be apart for a few minutes.

At her apartment, she tosses her stuff in her room, clears some magazines off the couch, and puts together the promised salad. Fitz arrives with a giant mushroom calzone -- “Really mixing it up, aren’t we?” Jemma teases -- and cuts large slices for each of them, carrying the food to the couch.

Every week they receive shipments of albums and singles before they’re released. The samples are an opportunity for them to not only plan their sets ahead of time but to develop a sense for new artists’ styles and appraise whom to highlight and whom to pass on for now. Unsurprisingly, artists and their agents are eager to earn the Cosmic Jams stamp of approval, as it’s almost guaranteed to launch a career. Fitz and Jemma also post reviews to the Mix106 blog to offer a depth for which there’s simply not time on-air.

The samples are delivered as physical CDs which can’t be copied or downloaded, so Fitz tucks the first one into a Walkman he’s owned since high school and sets it between them on the middle cushion, offering Jemma an earbud. She settles down with her plate in her lap and her computer next to her. They both put their feet up on the little living room table and Fitz presses play.

They don’t speak much except for the occasional, “Did you hear that? That was a brilliant riff,” from Fitz or the odd, “Ooh, can you play that one again, that was lovely -- I must mark that down,” from Jemma. When she’s finished her dinner, she puts her plate on the ground and takes the Walkman into her lap, sliding over closer to Fitz so that the cord between their earbuds isn’t stretched as taut.

Thursdays are Jemma’s favorite day of the week for this reason. They spend most of their evenings together anyway, but Thursdays are ripe with newness and discovery and unhealthy takeaway and just existing in this little bubble with Fitz. They don’t always agree on what they hear, which Jemma secretly thinks is part of the brilliance of music, and they bicker good-naturedly about whether such-and-such rapper stands any chance in today’s dense field, but the overall feeling is one of undeniable camaraderie.

They’ve only made it through half the samples when Jemma’s head starts to droop onto Fitz’s shoulder.

He chuckles and pushes her away with one finger. “I should probably go. Get some of my notes in order before bed.”

Impulsively, still flush with the fuzzy coziness of their evening, Jemma encircles his middle with both arms and presses her cheek against his shoulder. “Hmph. You live too far away,” she mumbles into his t-shirt. He’s so warm and firm and she’s tempted to fall asleep right here and not let him leave. “Do you ever think we should just move in together? It would save us a lot of trouble.”

“Ah, I have a feeling Bobbi would take issue with that.” He stiffly unhooks her hands from his hip and sets them back in her lap before scooting away from her, studying the couch cushions. “Besides, you know how I hate change.”

It had been an offhand suggestion, not something she’s actually considering, but his obvious repulsion for the idea immediately drains all the previous pleasantness of his company. She nods, stomach hollow.

“G’night then,” Fitz mumbles, gathering the CDs into his bag.

He reaches the door just as it opens and Bobbi, Jemma’s flatmate, comes in, clearly just back from the gym. Fitz mutters a greeting and practically flees.

“He looks spooked,” Bobbi chuckles, swinging her bag up onto the counter.

“We were just working,” Jemma says quickly, though why she feels like she’s hiding something is beyond her.

“Ooh, another round of Spotify and chill?” Bobbi grins at her. When Jemma doesn’t shoot back, Bobbi pauses, frowning. “Wanna talk about it? I got wine.”

“I shouldn’t.” Jemma stands, tugging down the hem of her sweater, no longer feeling tired but for some reason loathe to socialize. “Have to be up early for work.”

“Ah, work,” Bobbi sighs. “That thing where you go from one place to another just so you can do the same things you do here with the same person you always do them with? That work? Besides, stop fooling, Jemma, you could show up hungover as fuck and the audience would love it.”

“Doesn’t mean I should do it,” Jemma grumbles.

“Okay, okay.” Bobbi throws her hands up in the universal symbol of surrender. “I happen to think your New Year’s Day morning show was one of your best, but--”

“I’m sorry, Bobbi,” Jemma cuts her off, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her palms. “I’ve been all over the place today. Maybe I’m PMSing.”

Bobbi slides the wine back into her shopping bag. “Shake it off, go to bed, get up tomorrow and see if things look different in the morning. If not,  _ then _ I’ll make you get wine-drunk with me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been exhausting to create so I hope this first installment is enjoyable!! I have most of it written and Tash is helping me through the rest so updates will be frequent! 
> 
> Find me on Tumblr!


	2. Spinning Records

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, frequent updates!! 
> 
> If this is at all good, credit to Tashonix for beta brilliance! All weaknesses are my own :)

Jemma gets to the studio early the next morning and waits until she sees Fitz bike into the lot -- bless the man, still riding his yard sale bike despite their healthy salaries -- before she hurries to the kitchen and makes them each a cup of tea. She meets him in the hallway and offers him a mug as he slips his messenger bag over his shoulder.

“Brilliant, thanks,” he says gratefully. “I slept through my alarm and didn’t have time for breakfast.”

She follows him into their studio and hovers by the couch as he unpacks his stuff. “I was thinking you’re right about Jiaying’s single. It does have more depth than is apparent at first listen -- which doesn’t lend itself to creating an instant hit, perhaps, but could be a factor in long-term popularity--”

“You know, actually, I’ve changed my mind about that,” Fitz admits, turning to face her. “I couldn’t get it out of my head and I kept feeling like there was something familiar about it -- which sometimes is just my response to a song that strikes a chord with me, apologies for the pun -- but this felt  _ too  _ familiar. It struck me this morning in the shower--”

“Sounds dangerous,” Jemma quips. “You could have fallen and hit your head on the ceramic.”

“Har, har. No, but listen to this--” He scrolls through his personal music library and clicks on something.

It only takes Jemma a moment to catch on. “ _ No _ !” she gasps, grabbing his wrist.

He nods, eyebrows raised.

“Do you think she meant to list it as an homage?” Jemma frets.

“There’s no indication on the sample’s packaging that she’s gotten the copyright to go ahead with this. So either she’s hoping that’ll go through or--”

“Or she was hoping to slip the plagiarism under the radar.” Jemma winces, worrying her lip. “Oh, I so liked her, when we met her at South by Southwest.”

“Don’t write her off yet, it could be a misunderstanding,” Fitz warns her. “Besides, I tend to trust your gut when it comes to people’s natures. I’ll give Gordon a call and hope he can straighten things out before it gets messy.”

He touches her lower back as he squeezes by to get to the desk and she turns to watch him, smiling slightly, a bloom of warmth in her chest.

It’s a fairly standard day from thereon in. Friday is New Music Day, so they have an opportunity to highlight new albums -- most of which they sampled several weeks prior -- and do a phone interview with Norwegian drummer Thor, who proves to be both impressively well-versed in philosophy and quite the gentlemanly charmer. After they end the call Fitz teases Jemma that she’s gone all red and giggly, which she hasn’t, but the audience will never know and Fitz uses that to his advantage.

Jemma has brought the uneaten salad from the night before and she makes Fitz eat some of it, shoving it leaf by leaf into his mouth. He chews exaggeratedly like a turtle, even allowing her to record the whole thing for Snapchat. She knows he’s only behaving himself to distract her from the album launch party later that evening, but she doesn’t care: it’s adorable.

In the afternoon they take a few more calls -- mostly people asking about Thor’s arms, clearly not understanding how phone interviews work -- and Fitz agrees to hold down the final hour of the set so Jemma can rush home and spend an unnecessary amount of time getting ready for the party. She hugs him around the neck in gratitude and scampers for the exit.

She’s almost made it out when she bumps straight into a short blonde woman who looks to be a few years younger than her.

“Whoops! So sorry, apparently I lose my head entirely when Project Leda is concerned--” Jemma chuckles.

“Oh, I’m totally the same way,” the woman chuckles.

“You aren’t the new intern by any chance?” Jemma asks, pushing down her nerves long enough to remember to act like a decent person.

“Unfortunately. Anita,” she adds, shaking Jemma’s hand.

“John Garrett’s niece, as I’m told. He’s a powerful man to have in your corner.” Personally Jemma’s never been fond of Garrett, but he pulls significant weight in the music industry and she’s (mostly) been careful to avoid angering him.

“Hasn’t helped me much so far,” Anita sighs, waving to her lanyard and the cups of coffee she’s carrying. “25 and still an intern.”

“Oh, we can change that, don’t you worry,” Jemma promises warmly. “Find me tonight at the launch party and I’ll introduce you to some people, tell you how to work the field -- you’ll conquer radio yet.”

“That would be brilliant, thanks,” Anita says, slightly dazed.

“Trust me, I know how valuable it is to have a friend.” Jemma glances back down the hallway to where she can hear Fitz arguing with himself about Macklemore’s influence. “If I can be half as supportive to you as Fitz has been to me, you’ll do okay.”

An hour later she picks Fitz up at his apartment -- “I’m not going to  _ bike _ there in my  _ suit _ , Jemma” -- and they arrive to the hotel only slightly late. The place is milling with VIPs and paparazzi, and after getting out of the car Jemma stands on tiptoe, one hand on Fitz’s shoulder so she doesn’t fall right over in her high heels.

“Do you see them?” she asks anxiously. “Do you see the band?”

She’s followed Project Leda since they were a group of scrawny high school boys opening for local bands on Tuesday nights. Within the last year they’ve exploded internationally, but out of loyalty to their hometown station -- and perhaps due to some incessant nagging on Jemma’s part -- they agreed to hold the launch party for their sophomore album at this hotel, exclusive to Mix106 and select guests. Even without Coulson’s persistent reminders of how important this event is to The Powers That Be over at management, Jemma’s determined to make everything go right.

“Just follow the stench of overpriced cologne,” Fitz coughs, covering his nose and not trying to keep his voice down.

“Fitz,” Jemma scolds, elbowing him, but she coughs too and they both laugh.

“Shall we wade in?” he asks grimly, gesturing down the walkway.

They begin the winding path towards the door through the herds of reporters. Every few feet they’ll stop and answer some questions, bantering back and forth. Their natural rhythm is so beloved that they only need to ham it up slightly for the cameras. Jemma recounts the story of their rival radio shows at university and how they’d been coaxed into an on-air confrontation only to discover they rather liked working with each other; Fitz notes -- to everyone’s amusement  -- that he’s just glad to be the kind of famous where he can still leave the house without an elaborate disguise.    


“Fitz! Fitz!” shouts a spiky-haired reporter with a purple microphone. “How do you respond to TMZ’s allegations about tension between you two?”

“It’s bullshit,” Fitz says automatically.

“Fitz,” Jemma admonishes.

“No, I’m sorry, but it’s bullshit. I’ve not got a single problem with Jemma and anyone who thinks otherwise can take it up with me.” He sets his hands on his hips and shrugs, avoiding the camera and Jemma’s eyes. “That’s it. That’s all I’ve got to say.”

He nods decisively and excuses himself, slipping away into the crowd.

“Anything to add to that, or--?” the interviewer asks somewhat nervously.

Jemma watches Fitz until she can’t see him anymore, a peculiar tightness in her lungs. “I just want the best for him, you know? There’s no creative tension, there’s no warring personalities, there never has been, but if I thought for a second something _ I _ was doing was causing problems, I would change it -- because that’s what our friendship is, and our partnership. We’d do anything for each other, give up anything. I’m just glad we don’t have to,” she finishes with a laugh, realizing she’s made the conversation much too serious too quickly. “That’s it.”

She wants to go find Fitz, because they’re supposed to do these things together, but she’s waylaid by the team from Buzzfeed.

“So next week is the seven-year-anniversary of the first episode of your show,” Elena, the excitable interviewer regularly assigned to the Cosmic Jams beat, notes. “You’ve obviously covered a lot of ground in that time but is there anything you’d like to see moving forward?”

“You know, Elena, that’s a great question,” Jemma grins, then pauses to give it serious consideration. “I’ve actually been thinking a lot about the diversity of the artists we interview and feature, and I think we need to do a lot better with that.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“We play music from all genres and our audience loves it, but there are so many artists of color I’d absolutely love to bring on for a full interview but for some reason, no matter how many times I put in the requests, they never make it on our show. Music can have very powerful implications for reality and I don’t want to lose sight of that. Artists like Antoine Triplett and Raina regularly break records, of course, but their music also has much more of a message than your average pop hit, and I’d love to give them a platform for that. Fitz and I are white, obviously, and we’re not Americans, so we can’t speak to issues of race in this country with any great personal experience, but we have undeniable power to lend our support and visibility to causes and issues and conversations which are important to us and this is one of the top ones for me.”

“Why do you think they’re not on your show, then?”

Jemma knows she’s skirting dangerous territory, but what’s the point of having this kind of cultural caché if you don’t use it for the right reasons? “I don’t want to accuse anyone of being racist, but I think there’s something going on at the management level, honestly. Maybe they’re afraid we’ll politicize our show and be seen as too radical and lose listeners as a result, but our audience has always been interested in hearing what we have to say on every other topic. I’d hate to think we’re essentially being censored on this one.”

Elena looks thrilled and thanks Jemma profusely before releasing her into the party.

Fitz is seemingly nowhere to be found, but Jemma isn’t particularly surprised. The socializing, the hob-knobbing, the mingling -- that’s always been Jemma’s forte. Leave Fitz alone with a record player or a mix table and he’s occupied for hours. She’s sure he’ll come out of the woodwork when the party winds down.

She spies Anita and links their arms, guiding her through the party to point out friendly faces (and not so friendly ones). Anita has about a million questions -- in that way she reminds Jemma vividly of a younger version of herself -- and she does her best to answer all of them.

After a while, though, she can no longer ignore the way she’s all aflutter about tracking down the band, so she leads Anita over to Coulson, Joey, and Mike.

As they separate, Anita gives her a quick hug.

“What was that for?” Jemma asks, startled.

“Just -- Fitz is lucky to have you. We all are.”

Jemma smiles at her but the words jar her as she pushes her way through the crowd. Is this really how people view her partnership with Fitz -- as her dragging him along or propping him up? Goodness knows the boy has ridiculous talent as a producer and could be making five times as much in a different job -- her certainly doesn’t  _ need  _ her for anything.

Out on the back deck, Project Leda is taking a cigarette break. She does her best not to wave the smoke away as she introduces herself.

The lead singer, Paul, is a tall, muscular man with an incredible jawline and eyes that rove up and down Jemma’s body, and at first Jemma is flattered and even a bit intrigued by his obvious interest -- until it becomes apparent he has no idea who she is.

“Cosmic Jams?” she says for the third time. “Mix106’s most popular show?”

“Hmm, nope, doesn’t ring a bell.” He shrugs and grins at her. “I think I would remember your gorgeous voice if I’d heard it before.”

“You have,” she insists. “We’ve interviewed you about four times.”

“Ira generally does the talking,” he admits.

“Yes, but we were the ones who set up this event.”

“Oh!” he says with sudden realization and guffaws loudly. “Are you the ones who use the funny fart noises?”

Jemma fights the urge to wrinkle her nose. “No, that’s definitely not us.” 

“Huh. Well, I’m sure your show is good too.”

“So, what sets this album apart from your EPs?” she persists, determined to salvage this.

“Uh, this one will actually make us money? Otherwise it’s kind of the same thing.”

She gives him a simpering smile and makes small talk for a requisite few more minutes before escaping, nearly gagging with the suffocating blandness of her once-idol.

As she’s about to slip back inside to get a strong drink and challenge Joey and Mike to a round of billiards, Jemma spies Fitz sitting on the edge of the hotel’s pool, his dress trousers rolled up so that he can dangle his feet in the water. She changes course in his direction. When she reaches his side, she takes her heels off and settles down beside him, sighing slightly at the relief of the cool water on her legs.

He barely glances at her but jerks his chin towards the band, who are now taking turns pouring champagne into each other’s mouths. “Some day you’ll marry a guy like that and travel the world with him and send me postcards on the few days every year you remember I existed.”

“Don’t be stupid, Fitz,” she snorts. “That would never happen.”

“He was practically  _ drooling  _ down your dress.”

“Fortunately a relationship requires two consenting parties, and I decided I’m not interested. He’s attractive enough but dull as a dormouse.”

“That’s dull as a  _ doorknob _ , Simmons.”

“I’ve never had much use for that comparison so I changed it to something that I found more logical.”

“You can’t just  _ change  _ an idiom.”

“Of course I can. It just stops being an idiom and returns to being a run-of-the-mill simile.”

He shakes his head affectionately, moving his hands behind him to lean back. His pinky brushes Jemma’s before slipping onto the concrete and he shifts away quickly.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. 

 

She pats his hand and brings her legs up to her chest, resting her chin on one knee. “If you must know, I’m feeling rather stupid at the moment,” she confesses. “All that restlessness over tonight and it’s quite anticlimactic.”

“When have you ever  _ not  _ over-hyped something?”

“Fair enough.” She stirs the water with one leg, accidentally sliding against Fitz’s bare ankle on one pass. “I think I used to think this would be my favorite part, the big fancy parties. But then we get dressed up and don’t even get to spend time together  _ or  _ with the musicians, most of the time--”

“Jemma, it’s okay,” he says quietly. “I’m really happy sitting out here while you do your thing.”

“But that’s not--” She’s not sure what she’s trying to say but this just seems like further evidence that the TMZ article is right about her domineering their work relationship. “We’re supposed to be a little duo.”

“We  _ are  _ a duo,” he assures her. “But even in the best duets there’s time for solos. If I’m the guitarist and you’re the drummer, there are times when I stop playing and let you go ahead.”

“So,” Jemma clarifies, squinting across the pool, “in this metaphor my socializing at this party...is like my drum solo?”

“Something along those lines, yeah.”

“But you shouldn’t have to be silent just so I can be heard,” she protests.

“Maybe I like it like that. Not all the time, mind,” he adds quickly, “just...sometimes it’s okay. Okay?”

“Okay,” Jemma agrees reluctantly.

“But we can’t both stop playing or the fans will get rabid.” He leans forward to flick water at her bare legs. “You should get back in there.”

“Fine, I’ll let you continue being Mr. Dark and Moody--”

“Should that be my DJ name?” Fitz muses as she stands. “I was thinking ‘Dr. Love’ but--”

“I get it, I overstayed my welcome!” Jemma yelps and scurries away. “Please never mention that name again.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on Tumblr!! And your comments give me life, even if I don't respond right away I read them and weep


	3. Interrupted Transmission

“Hey Simmons?”

“Yes, Fitz?”

“Would you say the inventors of the radio were on the same... _ wavelength?” _

“Oh lord have mercy.” Jemma snaps her notebook shut because once Fitz gets started with the radio jokes everything goes downhill.

“Hey Simmons?”

“Yes, Fitz?” she asks, very patiently, for the sake of the listeners.

“Have you ever wondered why I like to bring pretzels and chips to the studio?”

“Why, Fitz?”

“For the sound bites.”

“And you wonder why Fitz never went into comedy,” Jemma mutters into her microphone.

“Hey S--”

“Seriously, Fitz?”

“Okay, I’ll stop.” Fitz is silent for almost long enough but can’t hold it in and blurts out, “Hey Simmons?”

“ _ What _ , Fitz?”

“Puns about radio frequencies should be  _ band _ .”

“Oh my god, is it time for commercial yet?” Jemma groans.

“Do you ever regret asking me to do a show together, Simmons?” Fitz grins at her, leaning his cheek into his hand and looking adorably dopey, damn him.

“I’m starting to!”

It’s the Monday following the Project Leda launch party and they’ve just finished recapping the event -- Jemma uses polite, vague language to describe the band -- but are technically supposed to fill a few more minutes before they start the morning set.

“You know,” Fitz continues, “Simmons and I actually spent some time this weekend discussing potential DJ names for ourselves.”

“No we didn--- Oh, not  _ that  _ again, Fitz--”

“I was thinking of going with ‘DJ Love’ but I think it makes Simmons uncomfortable. How about we put up a little poll on our website and take suggestions? I’m putting DJ Love out there, but if someone comes up with something better--”

“You’ll be lucky if you don’t get all answers like ‘DJ Two-Inch Di--’”

“Aaaaaaand I see it’s time to kick us off!” Fitz talks over Jemma, glaring at her. “This first song is a little something to get you energized for your work day, if the caffeine hasn’t done its job yet -- From Canadian band Bear Mountain, this is “Hopeful”, the remix -- I’ll tell you more about this group after the first break.”

He flicks his mic off and rolls his chair along the table to ram into Jemma’s, like bumper cars.

“DJ Two-Inch Dick, are you serious?”

“That’s what happens when you try to mess with me on-air,” Jemma shoots back, meeting his gaze with deadly calm. “I’m more than happy to give as good as I get.”

Fitz pushes himself back to his laptop grumpily and sits there for a moment, flicking at the cord of his headphones. Then he chuckles -- the fake-fight already over -- and says, “You know what I was thinking we should market? Cosmic  _ Jams _ .”

“As in, marmalade?”

“Exactly. Record-Breaking Raspberry. Platinum Plum. Grammy-Nominated Grape--”

“One-Hit-Wonder Orange!” Jemma chimes in gleefully.

They’re still chortling when Coulson shows up, mouth in a tight line, and asks to speak to Jemma. Fitz waves her off, putting his headphones on and already bobbing his head in time to the song.

“Jemma,” Coulson sighs, dropping into a chair across from her, looking very tired. “Do you remember making some comments to Buzzfeed at the party last Friday?”

“I talked with Elena, of course.”

“Management had some concerns.”

“They should!” Jemma folds her hands on the table in front of her. “I stand by everything they said. Though honestly, if they’re to chide anyone, they should fine Fitz -- he said ‘bullshit’ in an interview, Phil, we’re supposed to be a family-friendly show--” She won’t mention the joke she almost just made on-air.

“They’re not trying to fine you, Jemma, they’re trying to  _ fire  _ you.”

“What?” Jemma laughs. “That’s prepos--”

But Coulson’s not smiling and she splutters into silence.

“You can’t be serious,” she whispers.

“I’ve been arguing with them for three straight days since the articles were published, trying to talk them out of doing this, but-- Apparently your... unwelcome opinions have been a topic of discussion for some time and Garrett in particular took issue with your accusations of racism.”

“I purposefully  _ didn’t  _ call them racist!” Jemma protests. “Though I probably should have, honestly--”

“Either way, they’re giving you two options.” Coulson pulls two stacks of paper out of his briefcase and slides them across the table to her. “Option A: apologize publicly, retract your statements, basically say you think management’s doing a great job encouraging diversity, and from here on in toe the line. Watch what you say. Take talking points.”

“Censor myself,” Jemma summarizes bitterly.

“Or, Option B... Take a severance package. Leave the show, effective immediately.”

“This is ridiculous!” Jemma exclaims, shoving the papers back towards him. “I’m not leaving! This can’t be legal--”

“It might not be, and you could try to fight it in court, but even if you won and kept your job you’d be working under management that obviously has it out for you and wants you gone. They’d make your life, and probably Fitz’s, miserable.”

“But if I leave... Fitz would stay?”

“If he wants.”

Jemma looks down at the papers again. The coincidence of the timing is not lost on her -- that questions would start flying about her commitment to their partnership and Fitz’s satisfaction therewith just days before this attempted ouster is a bit too convenient -- but it doesn’t lessen the clenching in her gut. She cannot retract her statements, that much she knows. It would be a devastating flip-flop for the show even if she weren’t vehemently opposed to sacrificing one’s values at the slightest pressure. The question is -- and the rapidity with which this is evolving, everything ending in mere seconds after seven full years, makes her head spin -- how she will leave.

If she were to ask Fitz to go, he would -- it’s not even a question. But Jemma is suddenly not sure she could live with that: if she were only tanking her own show and her own life in one fell swoop, that would be bad enough, but taking Fitz down with her...?

Fitz has been adamant that he doesn’t feel constricted by her, but she has been witness to the dozens of job offers he gets every week. He could be producing his own music, almost certainly would have been by now if he hadn’t stayed on this show with her. She feels like she’s been hit in the chest. It’s almost certainly all true: Maybe Fitz doesn’t even recognize it himself, but what if she’s holding him back, limiting him, destroying chances he has to be truly great?

This may be a set-up, but it may also be an opportunity to give Fitz what he deserves. If he really loves radio, with or without her, he will stay here and flourish. If he’s been staying for her sake, he will be free to move on.

She clears her throat and tries to surreptitiously swipe at her eyes before looking up at Coulson.

“Could I borrow a pen?”

He pats his suit jacket and locates one. He watches as she clicks it and flips through the severance package, making annotations.

“Jemma, you don’t have to sign that right now,” he says, touching her hand. “Take some time to think over it.”

“There’s nothing to consider,” she says curtly.

“There is. You should at least talk to Fitz.”

Her pen hovers above the dotted line that waits for her signature. After a moment, she scribbles her name and hands the pen back to Coulson.

“I’ll wait a few days to file this,” he tells her as he puts the papers away. “Not that I’m pressuring you to change your mind, but -- just in case you need to.”

“Thank you.” Jemma hears how small her voice is and juts her chin out, gripping the arms of the chair as if she can hold herself together that way.

“And Jemma--”

She looks up as he stands.

“I would understand if you would want to fire me and find a new agent.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jemma says immediately. “This isn’t your fault.”

He squeezes her shoulder and promises to call her later in the week.

She waits a full ten minutes, staring at the opposite wall, before she gets up and walks, as if in a dream -- or rather a nightmare -- down the hallway.

She stops in the doorway of their studio. No, it’s not theirs anymore, is it? Fitz has got one eye squeezed shut as he fine-tunes his latest set, and she can imagine that he’s wavering over the flow of the playlist or the gender balance of the vocalists or the inclusion of  _ two  _ songs by one artist but oh they’re both just so good--

“Fitz,” she calls, before her nerve escapes her.

He doesn’t look around, of course, because he can’t hear her. She thinks about saying a few things now, before he notices her, just to be able to say them, to put them in the air, but an Adele lyric comes to her unbidden:  _ If I tell the world, I'll never say enough, Cause it was not said to you _ .

“Fitz,” she repeats, louder, crossing the room quickly and gripping his hand.

He starts and reaches up to slide his headphones off. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Fitz, I --” There is no way to say this. A song right now would be helpful but that is a coward’s way out. “I’m leaving.”

“Are you stepping out to grab some lunch? Can you get me an iced tea and a wrap--”

“No, Fitz, I’m  _ leaving _ . I’ve -- apparently there’s been a bit of a tussle in management over my comments on Friday and I -- they’ve -- I’m being let go.”

“What?!” He stands so quickly that he almost knocks her over. His chair goes spinning across the room and slams into the wall. “You can’t be serious.”

She wants to laugh, because she said the exact same thing to Coulson. In all their time together even the very way they speak has blended, to the point where it’s impossible to tell who brought what turn of phrase into the mix.

“I’m afraid it’s true,” she says instead, because one of them has to keep their head on straight. “Coulson’s giving me a few days to consider retracting my statements, but -- my mind is rather made up.”

“Then I’m going with you--”

“You can’t, Fitz.” She stops him with a hand to his chest. “If you leave too then they win completely. It would devastate our listeners.” That much is true, though long-term she hopes he  _ will  _ leave, will figure out for himself all the brilliant things he could be doing without her and seize one or a handful.

“But I agree with you!” he says furiously. “With every single thing you said--” 

“I know, but--”

“You can’t do this!” Fitz blusters, stepping back from her.

“What are you mad at  _ me _ for?” she demands.  


“For taking this! For letting this happen! For not fighting for us!” he explodes.

She thinks it would be less painful if he physically hit her, but she lets him get angry. It’s really about time -- he’s always too damned helpful and understanding.

“Why are you really doing this, Jemma?” Fitz demands, his hands curled halfway towards fists as if he wants to grab her arms and shake her. “Are you that eager to ditch me and advance your own career? Is that all you’ve been waiting for? I thought you’d at least tell me you’d gotten an offer--”

“That’s not --” Jemma gasps, stung that he could think that of her. She has to stop herself from touching him because one of them will break and she’s not sure who it will be. Instead she grips her neck with both hands, wincing. “That’s not why I’m doing this.”

“Then why?!?” he pleads.

She can’t tell him. He will not understand, or he will not believe her, or in some other way he will find a way to twist what she says to make her lose her hard-earned resolve to put him first for once. His eyes have already started unraveling her -- a moment longer and she might agree to anything he asks.

  
“I’m sorry, I can’t do this,” she whispers and darts out of the room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At least the chapter was short????   
> Updates will be frequent!! I PROMISE  
> For the record, Tash and I have been calling this "The Chapter of Shit" in my notes.  
> Also for the record: the puns are from the interwebs, the terrible jam titles are my own. :P


	4. Dead Air

Jemma tells herself that leaving feels this life-endingly terrible because all change requires some pain. That if it were easy she’d be doing something wrong.

She should feel torn up about the show. She should feel lost without a job. She should feel a bit self-righteous and talk smack with all her friends about Garrett, the arsehole.

But all she can focus on is the naked shock on Fitz’s face as she fled.

They have always had a method to their fights. It is one of the ways Jemma knew early on that she and Fitz would stay friends forever: whenever one or the other slips up, they wait a reasonable amount of time for them both to cool off (always less than a day) and then begin sending music as a peace offering. Jemma tends to select more heartfelt, apologetic, acoustic tidbits while Fitz will text her the link to the Potter Puppet Pals or some nonsense and she’ll know that he misses her and wants their spat to be over. They’ve never discussed it -- it just is.

She hadn’t meant things to happen this way, so for all her resolve to give him space, Jemma barely makes it past dinner time before she sends Fitz “I Was Wrong” by A R I Z O N A. It’s an obvious choice, even for her, but this fight has a particular urgency to it.

He doesn’t respond. She sets her phone aside and tries to read, reasoning that he could be at the pub or napping or in the shower or at the gym, though he’s never gone to the gym before, but maybe today he’s started and he’s pushed himself too far and torn his ACL but they’re fighting so the stupid man doesn’t call her when he’s rushed to the hospital in unbearable pain--

She growls and grabs her phone again, sending “Never Be Like You” to his personal Facebook, just in case he for some reason checks that and not his texts.

Still nothing. She almost texts him again, with one more song, right before she goes to bed, but she realizes how desperate and needy that would seem. Apparently it’s all true -- the first sign of trouble for poor Simmons and she expects Fitz to do the heavy emotional lifting and make her feel better.

Not this time. She shuts her phone off purposefully and goes to bed.

When she wakes in the morning and finds that there is still no response, her falsely confident bubble from the previous night bursts. He has  _ never  _ not responded. They have never  _ not  _ gotten over their fights within a day.

But this is a new status quo. Equilibrium has been disturbed, the needle has slipped off the record, and she cannot expect him to act like she has not hurt him.

It is this silence, this refusal to follow their system, that forces her to accept that her friendship with Fitz may, just like that, truly be over.

She sinks back into bed and does not get up but to slink to the bathroom. She drags her laptop over and puts on Fitz’s New Year’s Day playlist, all soft covers with gentle guitar and sweet vocals for when they -- and the entire city -- were nursing hangovers at the start of the year.

By noon she’s come down with something like the flu, judging by the way she is feverish and sore, shaking and dizzy. She is almost grateful for the timing and takes it as an excuse to burrow into her pillows and hide from decisions and consequences. She doesn’t even have the energy to cry.

She’s a smidge less grateful when day two brings regular vomiting, especially as she’s barely eaten anything in the last day.

Bobbi leaves her alone at first, knowing how Jemma hates being smothered. But on the morning of the third day, she enters Jemma’s room without knocking and sits on the edge of the bed, rubbing Jemma’s ankle through the sheets.

“Hey, babe,” she says quietly, “we have to tackle this eventually, one way or another.”

“Tackle what, Bobbi?” Jemma asks groggily. “I’m  _ sick _ .”

“Yeah,” Bobbi scoffs. “ _ Love _ sick, maybe.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Jemma snaps. She punches her pillow down and tries to sink further into it.

“Jemma, you’ve never been in a fight with Fitz for this long. Heck, this is probably the longest you’ve ever gone without seeing him. And you’re so anxious about it that you’ve made yourself physically ill.”

“That’s preposterous.”

“Don’t forget I was around during the college application insanity of 2007.” Bobbi raises her eyebrows, her lips set in her ‘don’t even try that with me, Jemma Simmons’ way. “You did the same exact thing then. You thought the world was going to end so you gave in to your anxiety for a few days and acted like it was the flu.”

Jemma glances at her and then away, a heavy blush pronounced against the white pillowcases. “It’s not the same,” she mutters, but she is more disgruntled than defiant. “The idea that I can induce illness is crazy--”

“Yeah, well, love  _ is  _ crazy,” Bobbi agrees smugly.

“Would you stop using that word?” Jemma cries and flips aggressively over onto her other side so her back is to Bobbi.

“Okay. I’m gonna leave you alone in a second, but right now I’m gonna do something I should have done years ago.”

Jemma stares at the wall, wishing she could cover her head with a pillow without it looking childish.

“When I first moved in, I promised myself to let you two figure this thing out. It was obvious from the very first time that I saw you interact with Fitz that there’s something there -- some spark, some magic, whatever you want to call it. But I figured it wasn’t my place and my involvement would only make it worse because maybe it was just a passing thing.

“But this?” Bobbi’s tone is somewhere between anger and remorse. “You’re making yourself actually, physically sick just from the  _ thought  _ of no longer being friends with Fitz. This crosses a line, Jemma, and I should’ve said something sooner, but -- I think you have to consider the fact that you might be in love with Fitz.”

“No!” Jemma cranes around to look at Bobbi. “That’s not -- Fitz and I? We’re not--”

“I’ve never been friends with a guy first, so I don’t know how this normally goes down, but let me ask you this,” Bobbi talks over her. “Try to imagine being more than friends with Fitz. As a general concept it might seem weird at first, but imagine the little things. Imagine holding his hand. Imagine him coming over to hang out and never having to go home -- you guys just keep hanging out forever. Imagine waking up next to him.”

Jemma is silent, chewing her lip. 

Bobbi sighs exasperatedly. “Okay, let’s do this a different way, then. All those playlists he makes you? Imagine him making them for some other girl. Imagine him becoming infatuated with some other girl and spending more time with her and less with you. How would that make you feel?”

Unbearable agony like appendicitis knots Jemma’s stomach and she curls in upon herself with a whimper, gripping the sheets in one fist. Bobbi leans over her, rubbing her shoulder.

“That was mean, I’m sorry,” Bobbi murmurs. “But I think you need to consider it, because someday it might happen. If you’re absolutely sure you’re not in love with Fitz then you have to work on letting him go.”

The next moment Bobbi’s warmth is gone and Jemma is having trouble breathing.

She does think about it. And once she  _ starts  _ thinking about it, she can’t stop. She expects to experience a montage, a life-flashing-before-her-eyes moment where she reconsiders every interaction she and Fitz have ever had, but that’s not even necessary. Because the minute she considers it, she feels a strange rush through her whole body -- like when her fever began, but instead of leaving her shaking and sweating she is strangely suffused with nervous excitement.

_ Can it be true? Do I love Fitz?  _ It’s preposterous but it’s also the most sensible thing she’s ever heard.  _ I’m  _ **_in love_ ** _ with Fitz,  _ she says to herself, just to try it out, and could almost cry from the bliss that idea gives her.

She realizes she’s smiling and she covers her eyes, laughing softly at herself. All those love songs she’s always written off as sappy exaggerations -- all true.

She’s not quite sure what to do with the information. She certainly can’t tell Bobbi, who’ll be so damn self-righteous and pleased with herself. Normally the person she’d first contact in these situations is Fitz, of course, but he’ll definitely be confused if she starts sending him Nat King Cole ballads.

This thought brings her back to earth.

She may be in love with Fitz, has probably been in love with him for years and never thought about it because she never needed to because she had him and never needed to imagine  _ not  _ having him, but he’s had just as many years to tell her if he feels the same way and he hasn’t. Come to think of it, he’s not shown much interest in anyone, female or otherwise, as long as she’s known him. So now she’s in love with her best friend, who’s currently not speaking to her and almost certainly doesn’t return the feeling.

Her momentary high is nothing in comparison to the absolute misery she now experiences.

She doesn’t tell Bobbi. She knows that Bobbi would tell her to talk to Fitz about it and she simply can’t. Being in love with Fitz -- or at least,  _ recognizing  _ that she’s likely  _ been  _ in love with Fitz for years -- changes nothing. If anything, it makes everything worse. Even if Fitz were to feel the same way, to tell him now would be to undermine everything -- to take back the chance she’s finally given him to step out from her shadow.

She slips out when Bobbi’s gone to work and drives to the studio. It is past the end of their -- Fitz’s -- afternoon set and he should be gone by now, so she can go in and take her things without another confrontation.

She’s never had a proper break-up before -- not that this is one, not really -- but she imagines it feels something like this, standing in the middle of their studio, looking at the signed posters they’ve accumulated, the blanket Fitz’s mum knit that’s draped over their couch for four years, the worn tracks on the wooden floor where they roll their chairs around each other in well-established patterns, the fan she bought (somewhat passive-aggressively) because Fitz always complained that she kept the heat too high.

She scoops her headphones and a potted plant into a cardboard box but can’t find much else that doesn’t rightfully belong to Fitz as well. On the shelf by the door there’s a picture of the two of them at their first concert -- god, Fitz looks like a cherub, with his rosy little cheeks and voluminous blond curls. Jason Mraz is somewhere far in the background on the stage and Fitz is gazing at her with unabashed adoration as they take the selfie. It’s not an expression she expects to see Fitz direct at her ever again.

She sets the picture frame back onto the bookshelf. She’ll let Fitz throw it into the trash if he wants. It’ll probably only make her cry at this point.

The door opens behind her.

Jemma inhales sharply. “You’re at work late!” she chirps, voice unsteady -- but when she turns, it’s not Fitz but Anita in the doorway.

“We were just running over some logistics and I saw you come in.” There’s a smile fixed on the young woman’s face that makes Jemma nauseous. “They kind of just threw me in when you bailed so we’ve been a little too busy to get down to the fine details.

“You’re the--”

“New cohost, yeah.”

“Only Fitz gets to finish my sentences,” Jemma snaps before she can catch herself, then immediately starts to apologize, but Anita cuts her off.

“I think you’ve lost that privilege.”

All Anita’s nervous, youthful warmth from a few days before has vanished. She raises her chin, defying Jemma’s scrutiny.

“So how long did it take you, exactly, before you clawed your way into my vacancy?” Jemma says with icy calm, stepping towards Anita. “Hours? Minutes?”

“It was mine before you even left.”

She thinks again, suddenly and with striking clarity, of the convenience of the timing of it all, the TMZ article, Anita’s internship, the severance package. “Don’t think I don’t know, Anita. You wanted me gone.” 

“No, I wanted a job.  _ Uncle John _ wanted you gone. It’s nothing personal, Jemma, I promise.”

“Nothing  _ personal? _ ” Jemma has never wanted to slap someone quite so much. “I went out of my way to help you, Anita! I know how hard it can be as a young woman in this industry and I’ve seen women take each other down and I was determined to not let that happen with us and you - you -- And Fitz! Do you know what you’ve done to him, to us, to our friendship?”

“Oh, now,  _ that  _ was all you, Jemma. Apparently the rumors have been right all along -- you really are a heartless bitch where Fitz is concerned.”

Jemma’s just about to drop the box she’s still holding and slap Anita for real when Fitz appears in the doorway.

“You’re really going then?”

His voice is unbearably stiff, and hoarse like after they’ve done a live show from some loud venue.

It is the first time she has been in the same space as him since she’s thought about her feelings for him as  _ love _ , and her bones ache like someone is dragging a bow across them, seeking to play them like a cello. She can’t believe she never noticed the way his presence takes up the whole room. She’s had years beside him, the vibrations of his vocal chords as he teases her the only music she’s never tired of  -- and it takes letting him go to see it all clearly.

If they weren’t fighting, she would laugh and tell him how her thoughts have basically become a Passenger song.

“I told you I was, Fitz,” she murmurs, stepping away from Anita and looking at the floor, all her fire gone.

“You said you’d think about it.”

“And I did. And -- this is for the best. I’m not welcome here anymore.”

She brushes past them -- well, she bumps Anita fairly hard, sending her careening into the bookcase, but that’s clumsiness and certainly not intentional -- and can almost feel the freedom of the outside air where she can take great, burning gasps to fill her compressed lungs when Fitz grabs her elbow from behind.

“Jemma-”

The force of his touch spins her to face him, as much as she doesn’t want to.

“What happened to us?” he whispers. “When did we get so out of sync?”

“We’re just finding new rhythms,” she tells him firmly.

“Jemma, promise me you’re not leaving because of me. Because I -- I couldn’t --”

“It’s not you, Fitz,” she insists, but he’s caught her off guard, getting right to the core of it all, and the lie must be apparent because he backs away again as if burned, excruciating understanding on his face.   
  
  
  
  


Jemma drops the box at home and paces the kitchen five times before she calls Coulson, leaves him a message, and texts Bobbi to meet her at the bar down the block.

She slides onto her favorite stool five minutes later, determined to be several drinks in before Bobbi arrives.

“Vodka neat,” she says grimly to the bartender.

“So you heard, huh?” the bartender asks sympathetically.

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh, uh--” The bartender grins and sets down the glass she’d been drying. “I forgot that I knew who you were and you didn’t know who I was. I’m Daisy, I’m a huge fan of your show--”

“I remember you!” Jemma laughs, shaking her hand. “Daisy Johnson. You called in, like, 15 times over three hours trying to win tickets to the meet and greet with Lincoln and the Campbells--”

“Oh my God,” Daisy groans, slumping forward across the bar. “I can’t believe you remember that, that’s so terrible...” She glances up at Jemma through her hair, then shrugs and straightens, not even blushing. “Ah, who am I kidding, I’m not ashamed. Lincoln’s a total babe.”

Jemma chuckles, accepting her full glass. “Did you ever get to meet him?”

“No, some dad won the tickets for his pre-teen daughters,” Daisy grumbles. “The worst.”

“I’d offer to help you out, but-” Jemma shrugs. “I’m not sure how the music industry feels about me at the moment.”

“Right, sorry,” Daisy says hurriedly. “That’s -- that’s why I assumed you were in here. Because you heard about the new cohost.”

“Heard?” Jemma snorts. “I just had the pleasure of re-meeting her. She’s--”

“The worst,” Bobbi finishes for her, dropping onto the next stool. “A beer, please.”

“Have you two been listening to the show?” Jemma asks nervously. “Is it -- how is it, without me?”

“Awful,” Bobbi answers immediately. “I mean, I guess Anita’s not the worst host ever, but she and Fitz have no flow. Honestly, I think Fitz might be sabotaging it on purpose. His sets have sounded weird lately too -- like he’ll be playing a bunch of classic rock and then throw in some Carly Rae Jepsen.”

Jemma feels a savage pride at that. Fitz will show everyone once and for all that he’s entirely self-sufficient and perfectly capable of tanking a show on his own.

She decides not to follow that train of thought any further and instead clinks her glass against Bobbi’s bottle. They both take long swallows as Daisy looks on approvingly.

“So,” Bobbi continues as Jemma winces down the burn of the vodka. “ _ Now  _ are you ready to tell Fitz you love him?”

“Ooooh!” Daisy gasps excitedly, leaning forward on her elbows.

“I’m not doing that,” Jemma says firmly, scowling at them both. “Tonight I’m going to get thoroughly plastered--”

“And  _ then _ you’ll tell him,” Daisy suggests.

“ _ No _ , then I’m going to have a meeting with my agent and start looking into job opportunities and getting back on with my life.”

“And  _ then _ you’ll--”

“Bobbi, stop!” Jemma begs. “I’m not telling Fitz anything. I just want my best friend back, but right now he hates me for leaving and he thinks I left because he’s done something wrong and I don’t know how to make him not think that without telling him why I really left but I can’t do  _ that  _ without either making him feel like I’m condescending or reneging on my promise to myself to let him find his own way because what if I’ve been bulldozing over him for years--” She stops for another long swig of vodka.

“Look, if that’s how you feel, that’s a conversation you need to have with Fitz, not us,” Bobbi says firmly, squeezing Jemma’s shoulder. “But I’ve always gotten the impression that when you’re happy, Fitz is happy, and the rest is static. That was totally unintentional, I promise,” she adds quickly. “I know how you hate radio puns.”

“Finally, someone’s talking sense,” Daisy sighs, nodding enthusiastically. “I’m Daisy, by the way.”

“Bobbi Morse.” Bobbi extends her hand and they shake, which Jemma can only see as a union of the two people most determined to make her life ten times more complicated than necessary.

Jemma looks between them for a moment, then down into her glass, and says quietly, “Even if Fitz and I were speaking, I don’t think I could tell him. He obviously doesn’t feel the same way.”

To her immense surprise, instead of attempting to comfort her, Daisy and Bobbi throw their heads back with laughter so loud the other patrons look uncomfortable.

“Jemma, are you  _ serious _ ?” Daisy demands. “Fitz is  _ totally  _ in love with you. Anyone who listens to the show for  _ two minutes  _ can hear that. That’s part of why everyone adores you guys -- your taste in music is great, sure, but that’s not why people stay. When you started out you were two bickering little kids but we’ve listened to your relationship evolve and --”

“He cares deeply for me, of course, but not in  _ that  _ way--”

“I love you, Jemma, but that’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said,” Bobbi interrupts her.

“I’m not feeling very supported at the moment!” Jemma protests, pushing her glass to Daisy for a refill.

“Right, I’m sorry. No more Fitz talk for tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll keep giving you hell. But for now -- let’s get wasted.” 


	5. Fine Tuning

The first time Jemma notices it, she is driving home from her meeting with Coulson. Riding a bit of a high from the numerous job interviews they’ve already set up for her, she turns the radio on for the first time in almost a week.

The only preset for which she’s ever had use is Mix106. Her hand hovers over the dial as she debates changing the station. She knows and respects DJs from dozens of other studios -- if she’s not mistaken, Lance Hunter at 88.9 should be on air right now, and he’s always a guaranteed laugh.

But it’s also the Cosmic Jams afternoon slot, and she knows she probably isn’t quite stable enough again to listen to it yet, but she’s just so damned curious.

So she leaves it on. After a few minutes she realizes she’s gripping the steering wheel so hard in anticipation of hearing Fitz or Anita that her knuckles are white, and she immediately releases it, stretching her fingers as far as they could go and forcing herself to tap along to the songs.

It’s an indie-rock set and Jemma can hear Fitz’s fine-tuning all over it. It wouldn’t be noticeable to someone not versed in the finesse of the perfect playlist, but from little signatures like the easy transition between one song and another or like the ebb and flow of groups of songs, she knows Fitz put this block together rather than Anita.

And then it happens, just like Bobbi had said: [ “Panda” ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lsJLLEwUYZM) breaks in, louder and more urgent than the preceding song, and the transition is so abrupt that Jemma’s jaw actually drops. Of course, the song is wildly popular, and it’s certainly possible that Anita or general management is pushing for more inclusion of Top 100 hits, but Jemma also knows that Fitz would die before he’d let someone else meddle with his playlists.

The thought of him standing in front of his computer, prepared to take a bullet to defend his carefully-curated sets, makes her chuckle.

If Bobbi’s theory is right and Fitz is purposefully sabotaging the show, whether to punish management or Anita or as an act of defiance for their treatment of Jemma, it’s certainly working. When “Panda” ends, the playlist goes right back to Gomez and continues in that vein as if nothing had happened.

“Attaboy,” Jemma mutters to herself, grinning.

The next time it happens, she’s cleaning the apartment rather vigorously as Mix106 blasts a set of fairly intense rap when  [ “Hey Ya” ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PWgvGjAhvIw) breaks through. She drops her bottle of Windex.

The third time, she starts to get a weird feeling.  [ “How I Want Ya” ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ujmnId8HDhA) interrupts an otherwise acoustic set. It may be a coincidence, she thinks, but the sense that she’s missing something important won’t leave and so she takes out her phone and notes down the three out-of-place songs she’s heard so far. Frustratingly, writing them down doesn’t help at all -- there is no code, no hidden message.

At this point it’s already something of an obsession. She lays awake in bed that night, trying to guess what songs will be added to the list the next day.

And then it clicks. The next time it is  [ “Everybody Loves You” ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQDLWnxq6fQ) and the moment she hears it she remembers.

_ She is in the middle of a shot of tequila and half of it sloshes down the front of her dress as she hears the lyrics of the next song that is playing. “I hope you get all you ask for” -- She doesn’t need to listen for the rest because she’s been gushing to Fitz about this song for weeks and so of course he has included it on her birthday playlist. Abandoning her shot -- she’s definitely had too many already, but her friends keep buying them for her -- she squeezes across the dance floor and flings her arms around Fitz’s neck from behind so she’s almost strangling him. _

_ “Fiiiiiiiiiiiitz!” she shouts, and he jumps even though he’s wearing those giant headphones that make him look like an adorable but also kind of badass Mickey Mouse. “You’re the best, you know that?” _

_ “‘S not  _ my  _ birthday, you don’t have to be nice to me,” he chuckles, peeling her off. _

_ “I know, but-- just -- this!” she cries, gesturing to the turntable. “You know I love your playlists but this one feels like -- it feels like me, but it also feels like you, you know? It feels like the best of both of us. And that’s the best gift ever, Fitz. Us.” _

_ “You’re very drunk,” he notes. _

_ “Isn’t it the greatest?” she breathes, clapping her hands to her cheeks. “I love alcohol.” _

_ “Okay, weirdo, go party.” He helps her off the platform and then returns to his music. _

_ “Fitz!” she calls a second before he covers his ears again. “You owe me at least one dance later, okay?” _

_ He had agreed to help her plan a giant blow-out party on the condition that she didn’t make him dance, but he doesn’t even hesitate before he yells back, “Come find me.” _

Jemma realizes she’s standing in the middle of a crowded sidewalk with her hand over her mouth, one earbud dangling loose.

He is not just playing those songs as an act of civil disobedience against his bosses. He has specifically chosen her birthday playlist, and Jemma doesn’t know whether to vomit or cheer or run straight to the studio.

He could be saying any one of a number of things: ‘I miss you.’ ‘I forgive you.’ ‘We are better together.’ ‘Can we try again?’

She’s walked halfway to the studio before her mind catches up to whatever other part of her body is doing the thinking at the moment. There’s still a possibility that that playlist was just alphabetically first -- under “birthday”, perhaps? -- and he’s using it without any underlying motive related to her. She’ll need to collect more data before she takes any sort of action.

Bobbi doesn’t ask why Jemma never turns the radio off anymore or why she’s even more of a nervous ball of energy than usual. Jemma doesn’t want to look at the playlist on her iPod, irrationally afraid to spoil the mystery for herself, but she needs to know how much time she has to figure out what Fitz is saying and plan her own statement or gesture in return, so she asks Bobbi to count the number of songs for her. Bobbi still doesn’t ask questions, just smiles knowingly to herself.

Jemma knows they are getting close to the end when the tone of the songs shift. She remembers Fitz had orchestrated that gentle easing-out of the party, as everyone got a bit sleepy and started drifting away, leaving only Jemma’s closest friends behind.

_ Something _ [ _ soft and ethereal  _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N0Gaz46wUVM) _ starts playing, and Jemma turns instinctively to look for Fitz, who still owes her a dance. She hasn’t made it far, though, before he meets her in the middle of the dance floor, his shirt wrinkled and untucked, his hands plunged deep into his pockets, his eyes exhausted, though he smiles at her as he approaches. _

_ “If I’d known the music were headed this direction I would have asked you to dance hours ago,” she teases. “I know how you hate physical intimacy.” _

_ She’s sobered up significantly but the rush of the early evening has been replaced with something fuller, a contentment she knows is rare, and she steps up to him before he can back out and links her arms around his neck. _

_ “It’s probably better this way,” he muses, his hands finding her waist after only a second’s hesitation. “That dancing you were doing before looked borderline illegal. I figure I’m much safer here.” _

_ She knows he doesn’t mean anything deeper but with their arms around each other it feels significant. He sees her smile and blushes, looking over her head. _

_ “Oh, shut up,” he mutters, and she chortles and rests her head against his shoulder so that her forehead is pressed against his warm, slightly sweaty neck. He steps forward slightly so that she doesn’t have to stretch so awkwardly and she closes her eyes, letting him sway them back and forth. _

“I’m an idiot,” she announces to Bobbi that day when she gets home. “I had years --  _ years _ \-- and it was so obvious!”

“Hmm, finally remembered the slow-dancing, huh?” Bobbi asks sympathetically.

“Did  _ everyone  _ but me know?” Jemma wails, dropping her face into her hands.

On the final afternoon, she and Bobbi join Daisy in the bar, where they’ve decided to listen to the last song together. Jemma’s so nervous she can barely sit still and she turns down the free drinks Daisy offers her because she’s not sure the glass will make it to her lips in one piece. She still doesn’t know what she’s going to do when they come to the end of the playlist and suddenly it’s minutes away.

“What if it’s all coincidental?” she blurts out for about the thirteenth time. “What if he didn’t mean for me to take it any specific way?”

“Oh, he did mean that,” Bobbi assures her, leaning her cheek into her hand and watching Jemma’s every tic, highly amused.

“How do  _ you  _ know? You said yourself you’ve never been friends with a guy first--”

“I know because he told me,” Bobbi cuts her off.

“You --  _ what?  _ You talked to him? Why would you do that?”

“Because he wanted to ask me to make sure you were listening.” Bobbi shrugged. “That’s it. He didn’t say anything else, and even if he’d tried, I would’ve told him to say it to you instead of me. But yeah, he’s wanted you to be paying attention this whole time.”

Daisy laughs at the absolutely stunned expression on Jemma’s face. “Can you hold that for a sec? I need to get a picture of you looking like that.”

She remembers talking to Fitz about the playlist as he walked her home the night of her party.

_ “I started at the end, actually,” he explains, kicking a pebble along the sidewalk. “With our beginning. Thought that had a nice symmetry to it, ending with Jason Mraz. It was surprisingly difficult, though, finding a song of his that wasn’t about-- erm-- That wasn’t quite so-- You know. That was right for the evening.” _

At the time she’d thought nothing of his fumbling explanation but now she wonders if he meant “that wasn’t a love song”. In the end he’d decided on “ [ Sleeping to Dream, ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1YdhKFFja8M) ” which he knew was Jemma’s favorite and was only available as a live recording. It was still a love song, on the surface, but she supposes it is innocent and sweet enough to be exchanged between friends as well.

“Whatever happens,” Jemma says firmly, trying to keep a hold on herself, “I’m not backing down on the Fitz-defining-his-own-career-path thing.” 

“My two cents, Jemma?” Daisy says. “And then I’ll shut up again, I promise. Just -- you don’t get to make that choice for Fitz. You can tell him it’s important to you that he maintain his independence but he’s perfectly capable of making that decision for himself. If the boy says he’d be happy picking up trash along the road as long as it’s with you, you have to try to believe him.”

Jemma stops herself from blurting out that there’s a Jason Mraz song along those lines and goes back to tearing the napkin in front of her into smaller and smaller shreds.

“He’s definitely not in love with me,” she insists when she can no longer stay silent. “If he felt the same way he would’ve said something -- he’s had seven years, after all--”

“Yeah, hmm, imagine being in love with your best friend for seven years and being too afraid to say anything.”

“ _ Crazy  _ thought,” Bobbi agrees. “I’ve certainly  _ never  _ seen anyone  _ I  _ know act that way--”

“That’s not the same thing!” Jemma cries. “I didn’t  _ realize  _ I was in love with him--”

And then they all stop talking at once because the volume of the radio has dropped dramatically though no one has touched the speakers.

It’s time.

But it’s instantly wrong.  [ The song that plays ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CusGBZh5V_4) is acoustic and soft like “Sleeping to Dream” but there is no screaming crowd. Just Jason Mraz and his guitar. Why would Fitz change the playlist?   
  


She knows the chords. She knows the song. And as he starts singing Bobbi and Daisy both turn to look at her but her heart is in her throat and her vision is going fuzzy.

_ Hello, tell me you know _

_ Yeah, you figured me out _

_ Something gave it away _

_ It would be such a beautiful moment _

_ To see the look on your face _

_ To know that I know that you know now _

She thinks Bobbi is laughing, she thinks she, herself, is crying.

The song is literally about being in love with your best friend and being afraid to tell them. She remembers standing next to Fitz at the concert, all those years ago, while this song was being performed, and their hands had brushed slightly and she’d blamed the electric shock on the strange weather patterns.

_ Well all I really wanna do is love you _

_ A kind much closer than friends use _

_ But I still can't say it after all we've been through _

“I have to go,” Jemma whispers, nearly falling off her stool though she’s touched not a drop of alcohol.

_ If I should be so bold _

_ I'd ask you to hold my heart in your hand _

_ I'd tell you from the start how I've longed to be your man _

_ But I never said a word _

_ I guess I'm gonna miss my chance again _

“I have to go!” she repeats, frantically this time. She feels like if she is still here when the song finishes, it will be the clock striking midnight, her fairytale will end.

“What are you going to do?!” Daisy shouts after her as she sprints for the door.

“I don’t know!” Jemma calls, spinning to look back at her friends, a giant and terrified smile across her face. “But keep the radio on!”

She darts back into the bar a few seconds later.

“Actually, could one of you drive me? There are a few things I need to do on the way and I’m not sure I’m in a state to operate a vehicle anyway.”

As she and Bobbi run back to their apartment to get Bobbi’s car, Jemma dials the Cosmic Jams hotline frantically, her hands shaking so badly she keeps mistyping. When she finally gets it right, she’s greeted with the message, “We’re sorry, you must first dial a 1--”

“SHUT UP!” she shouts desperately at the phone and starts over. “Come on come on come on,” she hisses, throwing herself into the passenger seat as the phone rings.

“Cosmic Jams, Mike speaking--”

“Mike!” she yells exuberantly. “Mike, I need to speak to Fitz, can you put me through--”

“He’s just started an interview, I can tell him you called--”

“No need, I’m on my way!” She hangs up, promising herself she’ll apologize profusely to Mike when she seems him in person, and grips the door handle as Bobbi accelerates far past the speed limit.   
  
  
  
  


Bobbi waits in the car, the radio cranked up, while Jemma hurtles through the doors of the studio, down the tiny hallway, and right into the Cosmic Jams room.

Fitz looks up in surprise, as does Mack, the gentle giant R&B superstar whom Fitz must currently be interviewing.

“Hi, Mack,” Jemma pants, freezing in the doorway, staring at Fitz. He looks terrified.

“Hey, Simmons, good to see you!” Apparently oblivious to the crackling tension, Mack stands to hug her. As he sits down, he explains into his microphone, “Everyone’s favorite English sunflower Jemma Simmons has just stopped by -- Simmons, are you joining our interview?”

“Um, no,” Jemma says, confused, then steps forward to say into the third microphone she used to use, “No, sorry to interrupt, I just -- I really need to talk to Fitz.”

Fitz stands and takes a step towards her, then seems to regret it and rocks back on his heels. She takes the indecision away from him by moving towards him as well.

“Fitz, I--” She looks down at her phone desperately. “Sorry, I  -- I wrote down some notes on my way over -- I meant to be more prepared but this was harder than I thought it would be--” She can’t focus on any of the text on the screen and she finally lets her hand drop to her side. “Agenda Item Number 1. Fitz, I love you.”

“Oh shiiiiiit,” Mack whispers into the microphone.

“I love you, and that’s like starting at the end, because there’s so much else I need to say in between, like I’m sorry for leaving like I did but I thought it would help you, I thought I was holding you back and I thought you needed to let go or I needed to let go or I don’t know what, but -- I think you know all that already, because you were angry at me at first but since then--”

“I’m not angry,” Fitz interrupts quickly, stepping closer again, brow furrowed but eyes wide and honest. “I was -- I was terrified, that you might be leaving me behind, but it became pretty obvious pretty quickly what had happened --”

“Where’s Anita?” Jemma asks abruptly, noticing her absence for the first time.

“Audience hated her,” Fitz says dismissively, as if it’s a non-factor. “Or, I don’t know that they hated her, but they missed you. It was never the same.”

“Right. Um -- where was I?”

“You were apologizing to Fitz and telling him you loved him,” Mack supplies helpfully.

“Thanks. Fitz--” His name is a disbelieving rush of air and they’re both smiling and she doesn’t know how that’s possible. “Agenda Item Number 2. We’ve always communicated through music even when other words don’t work, but I think for a while there I let other people’s words get in the way when I should have been talking to you and listening to you and trusting our connection. I -- you could say I forgot to  _ tune in _ .”

“Jemma,” Fitz whispers wonderingly, “was that a radio pun?”

“It was,” she breathes.

“Now that’s just adorable,” Mack murmurs, craning around at an awkward angle so he can watch them and speak into the microphone at the same time.

“And I can’t take back the way I hurt you,” Jemma presses on, now so close to Fitz she imagines she can feel the fuzzies on his cardigan, “but I’ve only ever wanted the best for you, Fitz, you need to know that--”

“I do--”

“Because you  _ are  _ the best -- not just my best friend, not just the best cohost, but the best -- best --  _ everything _ , and if I’ve ever not recognized that--”

“Jemma, I know,” Fitz assures her, grabbing her flailing hands.

“I’m not finished!” she squeaks and he releases her, looking amused.

“Agenda Item Number 3?”

“Number 3,” she nods. “I -- as I was driving over here I kept thinking that we need a song,  _ our  _ song, one that captures us perfectly, but -- why contain ourselves to one song, when we have the entirety of musical creation? Every day with you is a different tune, every year a different rhythm, and I  _ love  _ that.  I listened to other people telling me how we should be, how our partnership should sound, even though I’d always just taken it for granted that we don’t work the way other people do. But from now on -- if you’ve not written me off,” she adds nervously, just in case, “I’d like to do better at listening to  _ you. _ ”

“Don’t be stupid, of course I’ve not written you off,” he chuckles.

“Cosmic Jams restored, then!” Mack cheers.

“No, I don’t think they’re particularly fond of me here, but--” This is the part she’s least nervous about, but her levels of emotion are overall so high right now that it’s almost impossible to discern the difference. “Agenda Item Number Four. What do you say to leaving radio altogether and starting our own record label?”

Fitz gapes at her. She has to admit she’s thrown rather a lot at him in a very short frame of time, so she rambles on to give him time to catch up.

“We could still be support radio, in a way, but really it would give us a chance to focus on the aspects of music we both care about. You could produce, I could manage, we could sponsor radio stations across the country, around the world, even--”

“You want to start an empire,” Fitz says dazedly.

“No, I want to have a finger on the pulse of music,” Jemma clarifies, eyes shining. “And I do mean the pulse, not the pocketbook. The major labels are out of touch with what’s  _ actually  _ happening in music, but we’ve lived at the intersection of the creators and the listeners for the better part of a decade. We understand that connection better than almost anyone, and we can make it better for everyone involved.”

“Can I be your first client?” Mack chimes in.

“Absolutely!” Jemma beams. Then she turns back to Fitz, needing his approval. “What do you say?” she whispers. “Two songs, distinct and magnificent in their own right, but better together?” 

“Frankly I’m still stuck somewhere around the part where you said, ‘Fitz, I love you,’” Fitz admits dazedly.

Jemma laughs in overwhelming relief, and the sound seems to shatter the last questions in the air because Fitz closes the remaining distance between them and puts his hand on her waist like he did when they slow-danced, only this time he’s also kissing her.

“For those of you keeping track at home, they’re now making out,” Mack says conspiratorially somewhere behind them. Cheers can be heard from throughout the building.

Jemma laughs against Fitz’s mouth and twines her arms around his neck. She’d been slightly afraid that kissing him would be weird, that for all her emotional turmoil she’d discover they had no physical chemistry -- but it’s dizzying and warm and charged and the only things stopping her from dragging him over to the couch right at this moment are Mack’s running commentary -- “I think I see some tongue, though they’re now trying to angle away from me so I can’t really tell, but Fitz’s hand is definitely getting dangerously close to ass territory” -- and Mike and the other tech guys on the other side of the glass.

Fitz breaks the kiss first, but he pulls back in a lingering way, reluctantly releasing her upper lip, that assures her everything’s alright.

“I love you too,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms properly around her. “In case that was still in question.” 

“You shouldn’t keep your listeners waiting--” she says at the same time that he adds, “We have a lot to talk about.”

“Honestly, guys, I’m pretty sure your listeners will be pissed if you  _ don’t  _ keep making out.”   
“Well in that case,” Fitz grins and dips to kiss her again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. How y'all feeling now? :)   
> Credit to Tash for the chapter title and the picking-up-trash image of FS and for amazing beta work as always!   
> Yes...you read that right...there's still one chapter ahead...  
> Also I realized I have someone drunk or talking about getting drunk in every chapter... I promise neither I nor they are alcoholics.   
> I'm considering putting together/finishing putting together the Jemma Simmons Bday Tunez playlist at some point...but I'm also lazy af....


	6. Signing Off

“You’ll let me know how it goes the minute you leave, though, right?”

“Leave the restaurant or leave his apartment?”

“Daisy!” Jemma tries to snap sternly, but Fitz is tugging her by the lapels of her blazer through the door to his apartment and she can’t help but giggle into the phone as he pouts. “How do you know Lincoln will even want to sleep with you?”

“C’mon, Jemma, who wouldn’t want to hit this? I mean, really.”

Fitz groans at Jemma’s inattention and rolls his head in a circle, then steps up to her, kissing a trail down her neck. She inhales sharply.

“Jemma? You okay?” Daisy asks slowly.

“I’m fine, I’m just -- ooh!”

“Oh god,” Daisy mutters. “I interrupted something, didn’t I? You two freaky kids--”

“No, we’re not--” She’s not sure what they’re not, as Fitz’s hands have slid around her back beneath her blazer, which is hardly scandalous as there’s still a shirt between him and her skin but she still shivers. “We’re just getting back from a date.”

“Uh-huh. Okay, well, I’m infinitely grateful to you for setting me up with Lincoln, but not grateful enough to listen in while you get it on. We’ll both report back tomorrow, okay?”

“What?” Jemma says, distracted by Fitz working her fingers off of her purse and dropping it on the floor. “Yes -- that’s -- yes, good. Talk to you soon.”

“Not  _ too  _ soon,” Daisy clarifies.

Fitz pries his mouth away from Jemma’s ear long enough to practically shout, “Goodbye, Daisy!”

Jemma laughs and hangs up, tossing the phone onto the counter and settling her hands on Fitz’s shoulders. “Sorry. I’m all yours.”

“Finally,” he whines, resting his head in the crook of her neck for a moment before stepping back and moving away towards the fridge. “Do you want a water or something?”

Jemma brings her hands up to curl around her neck, fighting the disappointment that comes with his sudden absence. This had been their fifth official date -- “official” because the lines blur a bit when you spend every waking moment together -- and Fitz is still showing no inclination to go beyond a bit of harmless necking.

It’s been years since Jemma has had sex, and quite some time since she’s wanted to, and frankly she’s not sure she’s ever wanted to be with someone quite as much as she wants Fitz. Fitz, on the other hand -- Jemma’s not sure he’s  _ ever  _ had sex. Not that that changes her desire for him -- but if he’s not ready, or if he doesn’t want to at all -- well, that last one would require a serious conversation, as Jemma’s already fit to burst from holding back, but she’s promised herself to be patient and understanding and to make their romantic relationship balanced and equal.

“Hmm, a glass of water sounds good. I am feeling rather...  _ thirsty _ ,” she adds pointedly.

“I’d expect you would be, it’s a hot night for April,” Fitz comments, handing her a glass, apparently oblivious to her attempt to get something started.

She watches him watching her and smiles. Maybe the sex can wait. There’s still a lot they need to talk about -- like living arrangements, because even if they’re not  _ sleeping together _ , that doesn’t mean they can’t sleep together. On that front she thinks she can take fairly harmless action: she only owns the one toothbrush and it’s currently in her purse, waiting for her to “accidentally” leave it at Fitz’s apartment and never take it home.

Fitz drums his fingers against the edge of the counter, his tongue poking out just slightly from the corner of his mouth like he’s debating something, and then he straightens abruptly. “I’ve got something for you.”

_ A boner _ ? she thinks wistfully, and then kicks herself mentally for being much too ready to jump the poor boy.

He returns from his bedroom almost immediately and extends a CD case.

“You made me a mixtape,” she sighs adoringly.

“But a for-real mixtape this time,” he grins. “Like, middle school be-my-girlfriend mixtape.”

She glances down at it and sees what he’s written across it in blue Sharpie:  _ Dr. Love’s Songs for Special Ladies. _

“No!” she laughs, shoving it back at him. “I can’t take it if it says that--”

“Just listen to it,” he urges, darting out of the way as she tries to chase him down with the case.

“Now?”

“Yeah,” he answers, looking a bit nervous.

She cocks an eyebrow at him but sets her glass on the counter and crosses the room to his impressive stereo system. He follows her slowly, hands on his hips, and stands several feet away as she sets the CD in and presses play.

The first chords of  [ Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On” ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cqkwykA4iFw) filter sultrily through the living room and Jemma collapses back against the wall, laughing.

“Did you make me a sex playlist, Fitz?” she demands with mock shock.

He shrugs, lips twisting in a bashful smile. “This one’s kind of meant as a joke, but yeah.”

She hits next and the Justin Timberlake hit of her high school years,  [ “Rock Your Body” ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TSVHoHyErBQ) , replaces the seductive Gaye. Jemma covers her face.

“Seriously, Fitz? Do you plan to ‘have me nekkid by the end of this song’?!”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” he assures her, chuckling, stepping up to pull her hands down. “The next one’s for real.”

But the next one is  [ “I’ll Make Love To You”  ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fV8vB1BB2qc) and now she’s wiping tears of mirth away because Fitz looks so damned pleased with himself for this little prank.

“Even if this were a real attempt at seduction, you really think I could be seduced by a few tawdry songs?” She prods him with a finger to the chest, which he rubs dramatically.

“Well, I did successfully run a seven-year long con to get you to fall in love with me.”

“Oh, is that what that was?” she chortles. “Next time, shorten the timeline a bit, alright?”

He rests one hand on her hip and leans around her to hit next on the stereo.

The Jeremih  [ song  ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EnIR91t4qgY) that plays is slow and sexy and Jemma knows for a fact that it has some rather explicit, rather  _ specific  _ lyrics. She flushes just thinking about it, and suddenly the air feels very thick as Fitz moves back to stand before her, but a bit closer this time.

“What exactly did you expect to happen here, DJ Love?” she breathes, unable to decide whether to focus on his eyes or his lips.

_ I can't keep my eyes off your face _

_ Let alone talk 'bout your body _

_ I've been waiting for so long _

_ Girl you just don't know, no _

“Well, I thought -- um...” Fitz stops, brow furrowed. “The rest of the playlist is earnestly intended, if you-- But we don’t have to-- If you don’t want--”

“I do want,” she insists urgently, sliding her hands up his chest and stepping into him so his hands have to migrate to her lower back. “Do  _ you  _ want to--”

“Yes,” he interrupts her eagerly.

“Good.” The music makes Jemma feel bolder and she slowly works her hands under Fitz’s jacket collar and shoulders, pushing it off his arms. “Let’s start... around ... here...”

While his arms are still trapped by the sleeves, she stretches up on her tiptoes to kiss him. He responds immediately, his mouth opening so their teeth clash slightly, his entire body melting to hers as he shakes the jacket off impatiently. Jemma fumbles behind her with one hand to turn the volume on the music up, then walks them backwards towards the couch.

In classic Fitz fashion, he’s orchestrated the playlist to control the mood. It starts somewhat [ reverent ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fp_qAAi-T0E) , which matches their actions if not the rapidly escalating desperation Jemma’s experiencing. They kneel on the couch for a moment, panting between long, deep kisses, before Jemma pushes Fitz away to strip off her shirt. She probably should’ve given him a chance to do that, but there will be more opportunities to do this right in the future.

He gapes at her chest for a moment and she’s tempted to huff and tell him to get a move on but she wants him to enjoy this as well, so she lifts his hands and pulls them behind her to the clasp of her bra, encouraging him with a little nod.

For a minute she thinks he’s muttering to himself under his breath, but then she realizes he’s singing along to the song.

She laughs, and he looks up nervously. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, just -- if you still have breath enough to sing I’m obviously doing something wrong.”

He has only a moment to look stunned before she grips his face with both hands and pulls him in, determined to test the limits of his ability to multitask. (He passes with flying colors.)

She starts to unbuckle his belt but he growls against her mouth and works her backwards along the length of the couch. It must be a better position for kissing her neck or something, because he rather seems to be enjoying it -- not that she’s complaining, as it allows her to work her hands up under his shirt and then down over his arse. 

They get a bit distracted at this point and have only worked a few more items of clothing off before they’re interrupted by Marvin Gaye again.

Fitz drops his head against Jemma’s chest as they both laugh.

“Reckon that means we’re taking it a bit too slow,” Jemma teases.

“What was that you were saying about an accelerated timeline?” Fitz murmurs, trailing a finger over her belly button.

“Bedroom,” she whispers.

He scrambles up to let her stand and he walks behind her, hands on her bare waist, singing out of key, “ _ Let's get it on, oh baby,  let’s get it on, let's love baby _ \--”

“Okay, that’s enough of that,” Jemma says firmly, turning the stereo off as they pass. “Besides, I don’t think we’ll be able to hear it much longer--” 

“What d’you mean? It’s only a room away--”

“But we won’t be able to hear it because, well --  _ well _ .”

She turns to face him, shimmying her remaining undergarment away and stepping out of it so that she is naked in the middle of his bedroom.

“I see your point,” he says faintly, and then there’s not a lot of talking. 

  
  
  


Some time later, Fitz flops back down onto the mattress and grins at Jemma. “So, how was Dr. Love’s debut?”

“Do you mean you or the music?”

“Hey!” he protests, retracting the hand he’s been running gently up and down her sweaty back. “You ungrateful--”

“Oh, I’m very grateful,” she assures him, rolling over and draping a leg over both of his. “And I’m very satisfied with Dr. Love  _ and  _ Dr.  _ Love _ .”

She slips a hand under the sheets and Fitz yelps.

“You’re  _ not  _ naming my cock, Jemma.”

She bites playfully at his jaw. “I’ll wear you down yet.”

He tickles her waist in retaliation and she squirms, the result being that she’s more on top of him than before, and they both lapse into comfortable silence.

“Can I make addition recommendations for your playlist?” Jemma murmurs, swiping her hair to the side so she can kiss down the far side of his cheek near his ear. “Do you know the song  [ ‘Too Deep’ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N7LBse25QP8) ?”

He doesn’t, but he pulls it up on his phone while she continues working her way across his bare skin. After just a few lines he’s blushing and Jemma grins with wicked satisfaction.

He puts his phone on the bedside table but doesn’t turn the song off.

“Erm, I heard you mention wearing me down?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :) :) :)  
> Bless you all for being so receptive of this. Tash and Elaine can tell you how I was a bit of a nervous wreck over it but y'all have been absolutely lovely. So much love. 
> 
> Other songs not mentioned above that I had on Fitz's playlist:   
> -No Angel by Beyonce  
> -Hope by Tim Legend  
> -Close by Nick Jonas and Tove Lo  
> -Every Step Every Way by Majid Jordan (that's got its own fic, my first attempt at smut-ish :P )  
> -Weight in Gold by Gallant
> 
> LOVE TO YOU ALL!!! Mwah mwah mwah


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